


Games

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-20 07:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8241446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: A lunchtime wander provides more than just the opportunity for Grace and Eve to chat about the men in their lives.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is my attempt to both cheer up Joodiff - massive hugs to you - and inspire Gemenied, to whom I'm sending lots of creative vibes. Everyone else, this is a random bit of silliness written this afternoon in a desperate need to achieve something - anything - even vaguely creative. :) xx

**Games**

* * *

Casting her eyes sideways at her companion as they continue to walk, Grace raises an eyebrow and asks a partly curious, partly hesitant, “Really?”

The woman beside her automatically nods, even as she hums a soft, “Mmm.” The sound lingers in the air between them, despite their moderate pace, until Eve, taking a much more direct approach than the winding, indirect track their thus far mainly circuitous, vague conversation has meandered along, says, “Yes. But then, you already knew that.”

Grace shakes her head, adjusts her bag strap on her shoulder. “No, I didn’t.”

Eve snorts. “Oh _come on_ , Grace, don’t try that with me. I know you far too well, and I know there’s not so much a sneeze from Hannibal that gets past you. You might not say anything, but you know everything that goes on down in the bunker, and most of what goes on above it.”

Still shaking her head, Grace argues, “Not this time. I suspected, and I have for a while, but I had no proof.”

A dismissive hand wave accompanies, “That’s virtually the same thing.”

“It’s not, but that’s not the point – not what we were talking about.”

“True.”

A brief silence falls as they negotiate a single track path beneath some scaffolding, followed by a small crowd of people vying to pass each other in the limited space available, but then resumes as they reach open ground again.

“Spencer? Really?”

Eve grins, nodding. “You don’t need to sound so shocked, you know,” she teases.

“Oh I’m not,” Grace assures her, “it’s just…”

“Yes?” is the prompt that comes her way when she doesn’t immediately continue.

“He’s so…” She pauses again, searching for the kindest way to phrase her thoughts.

“Gloomy?” supplies Eve, helpfully. “Grumpy? Perpetually looking at the negatives and not the positives?”

“Well… yes.”

Instead of the irritation she expects, Grace gets only laughter from her companion, making her glance to the side again in interest.

“You’re right,” her friend admits, “but in private, away from work, he’s not so bad.”

“I can’t picture it,” murmurs Grace. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like him, and I enjoy working with him, but even that has its limits. Some days I just want to lock him in one of the cells, or send him off for a course of intensive therapy.”

“Yeah, I know _exactly_ what you mean, and I’ve walked out on him more than once for getting on my nerves, but he’s… he has his good points. At home he’s more relaxed – a little more thoughtful. He has interests and hobbies.”

“Mm. Okay.”

They turn left, heading down another street and Grace sees the way Eve grins wickedly at her. “He does, definitely. Well, the odd few, anyway. And underneath those suits… well, let’s just say the hours he spends in the gym are so worth it.”

Grace rolls her eyes as they reach the back gate of the police compound in which the CCU is housed and she reaches into her bag for her ID card, holding it up to the small grey sensor to release the lock and allow them both to return inside.

It’s her turn to tease. “So shallow…”  

“Oh, and you’re so innocent, I suppose?”

Navigating their way through the overspill car park that houses a mishmash of personal vehicles belonging to staff, and the lesser used items of police transport or carriage, they both, with wordless agreement, head for the side door that is frequented generally only by personnel from their department, and those on that day’s receiving end of Chief Inspector Bradley’s displeasure.

“I don’t know what you mean,” murmurs Grace, deliberately trying to steer the conversation away from the direction in which it seems to be heading.

“Don’t you dare,” laughs Eve. “Not when you and a certain Detective Superintendent are…”

“Yes?” she prompts, smirking.

Watching the geeky scientist in Eve trying for diplomacy has always entertained Grace, whether it should do or not, and it does so now as her friend visibly searches for an appropriate answer before finally settling on, “Enjoying each other’s company outside of the office.”

“’Enjoying each other’s company outside the office’?” laughs Grace. “Is that really the best you can do?”

“All right, sha–”

“Okay, okay; point taken. Let’s leave it there, shall we?”

Before an answer can come her way, the pair of them reach the archway into the small courtyard in which their chosen entrance is located, and immediately both stop dead in their tracks at the sight before them.

Directly across from them is an upended, empty metal rubbish bin, its lid cast aside as it presumably acts as the goal posts for the football that is currently being kicked about between the two men darting around within the enclosed, unobserved confines of the small space whose purpose seems to have been forgotten over time, and who between them are displaying more than enough muscle and athleticism to cause both ladies to stop and stare, and to keep on staring.

Jackets cast aside, shirt sleeves rolled up, and expressions considerably more relaxed than they were before lunch, Boyd and Spencer are both laughing and jeering at each other like schoolboys in the playground as they attempt to dodge and move around one another, kicking a ratty old football somehow inexplicably appropriated from somewhere unknown towards the makeshift goal.

Watching the way Boyd moves, the way his tall frame weaves so easily around his younger subordinate, his long, powerful legs easily manipulating the ball to go exactly where he wants it to, Grace finds herself easily forgetting the conversation she is supposed to be engaged with. Those legs… she knows exactly how impressively muscular they are, how powerful, but even so, watching just how agile he still is… it’s mesmerising.

So, too, is the way his shoulders move under his shirt, the dark blue material taut, the definition beneath it stark in the bright sunlight, and despite their location, despite the inappropriateness of the time of day and what it is she’s supposed to be doing, her fingers suddenly itch with a deep desire to peel away that fabric, to explore and re-explore exactly what lies beneath, what she is already so familiar with, yet never tires of.

The ball thuds loudly into the bin and a shout of delight makes her eyes shift to his face – Boyd may be older than Spencer, but as far as she can see he’s running rings around his subordinate, and that… is definitely interesting, as well. The bright, shining glee in his eyes makes her stare, calls forth a host of memories. One in particular fights its way to the forefront of her mind – dark eyes glinting mischievously at her in the dying light of a long, hot summer evening, the slick kiss of skin against skin as lazy kisses morphed into teasing and tickling and a lot of mutual laughter that then became a drawn-out and thoroughly unhurried, intensely sensual exploration of everything and anything and all the tiny little things in between.

“Now whose thoughts are less than pure?” smirks Eve, as Grace feels a gentle elbow nudge her in the arm, effectively destroying the delicious self-indulgence of her daydream.

“Mine,” she freely admits, because the bond between the two of them is such that she trusts Eve implicitly, and has, in recent months, shared far more with her than she normally would with anyone. She’s well aware there is a highly uncharacteristic note of dreaminess in her tone, but she doesn’t bother to fight it. Her battles have been fought already, some of them threatening to be the last she might ever face, and she hasn’t made it to this point in her life without wanting to enjoy all the things she chooses to. And Peter Boyd is very definitely one of those things.

“It’s real then?” asks Eve, her tone losing all edges of the teasing and dropping instead into the serious range.

“Very real,” agrees Grace, looking across at her. She lifts an eyebrow. “Did you doubt it?”

Lips pursed, the scientist considers the question for a moment. “Not really,” she says at last. “I think I just wondered if it would be more than just a few weeks or months of… something,” she finishes, clearly uncomfortable with trying to describe the nature of the relationship.

“You were worried?” Grace asks, easily picking up on what Eve is not saying.

The younger woman doesn’t try to hide it, instead inclines her head as she says, “For you, yes. Less so for Boyd.”

“Why?” asks Grace, inquisitive now.

“Because you’re my friend, and because no matter how well-meaning he is – and I know he is, that he’s a good guy at heart – he can be… thoughtless… sometimes. A little too rash, too abrasive. And I know – I knew – how invested you were, what your thoughts were beforehand. I was worried that he…”

“Didn’t feel the same?”

“Yes.”

Grace sighs softly, admits, “So was I.”

“I know.”

“But apparently,” she continues, “and I’m only telling you this because it’s you and I trust you, he felt the same. For years.”

“So you wasted all that time?”

It’s hard not to grimace at the thought. “Indeed.”

Eve’s exasperation is plain, but she lifts her hands in a gesture that is both a sigh, and a never mind, what can you do, and then says, “Oh well, at least it worked out in the end.”

“Absolutely,” murmurs Grace, her attention returning to the man who is so much more than just her lover, fixing briefly on the flex of muscle in his arms as he reaches down to scoop the ball up, before kicking it back into play and once again charging into the game with all the enthusiasm of a primary school student temporarily liberated from the classroom to unleash his pent-up energy before lessons resume.

As good as the show is, though – and it _is_ good – lingering doubts are still weighing on her mind, troubling her. Glancing at the woman next to her she wonders what to say, whether, in fact, to say anything at all. If the topic is free for her to broach.

“I just can’t see it lasting,” she murmurs eventually.

Eve doesn’t need her to clarify what she’s talking about, doesn’t ask questions about the shift in subject either. She only smiles reassuringly. “It won’t. He’s _far_ too annoying, believe me. But it’s fun while it lasts.”

“You’re not worried?” Despite herself, Grace can’t hide her concern.

“No.” The answer is definitive, but easily given. Is followed by, “It’s not the first time.”

“I know that,” concedes Grace, remembering the hints – some subtle, some less so – that she picked up on in the first few months following Eve’s start with the unit.

“It’s… right time, right place. We’re good together, but only for so long. And we both know it. Neither of us are expecting anything more – you really don’t need to worry, Grace.”

Caught out, she smiles. “I’m sorry.”

Eve shakes her head. “Don’t be – it’s nice to know you care. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Just remember, though, I want to be invited to your wedding – I need to see the look on his face when he realises what he’s just done.”

They laugh together, and it’s companionable and friendly – a moment for friends who have shared a lot in recent times, both good and bad.

That moment is rudely and savagely shattered though, when Sarah tries to slide past them, offering an overly bright, “Excuse me,” as she tries to pass by just a little too hurriedly. Both women step back, staring at each other with wide eyes, conversation passing between them easily, despite its unspoken nature. As lost in their musings about their respective men folk, and equally as preoccupied by the strange mix of masculinity and childishness on show before them as they have just been, neither can claim to have had any awareness of an approaching third party. And _third party_ is perhaps the best way to describe the newest member of their team, who is, even several weeks after joining them, still an unknown factor, her allegiance still not quantified, her motives still subject to question. What her game is, what her plans are – it remains a dangerous, mysterious indefinite surrounding them all.

No one trusts her, and no one likes her. It’s unusual for them all, and it’s disconcerting to say the least. And highly worrying, too.

Out in the courtyard the men are still laughing, still larking around and proving that boys never really grow up, but in the archway Eve and Grace remain frozen, both wondering exactly what Sarah just overheard, and what she might be planning to do with the information.


End file.
